


sick of losing soulmates.

by ProHeroKali



Series: An Archbishop and a King [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Male My Unit | Byleth, Mentioned Blue Lions Students (Fire Emblem), Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23908321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProHeroKali/pseuds/ProHeroKali
Summary: During the war, it was hard to appreciate things like the way a friend, a trusted confidant, made him feel, when every moment of every day was consumed by the fear that any brief moment of distraction would cost them all dearly. The luxury of desire had been something that Byleth could, quite simply, not afford.But now the war is over. The storm of worry in his head has finally subsided, and he can finally, properly appreciate it:Dimitri is gorgeous.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Series: An Archbishop and a King [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1723342
Comments: 6
Kudos: 90





	sick of losing soulmates.

As the joviality of the last celebration of their victory, the last official get-together of the Lions and their allies before they all parted to take care of their own business in their own territories, began to wind down, Byleth searched for Dimitri. He’d noticed the other man slip away at some point earlier, but had been caught by a loud, obnoxiously excited Sylvain pulling him back to the others before he could go find where Dimitri had gone.

Only once poor Felix offers to drag the overly intoxicated Sylvain back to their room, bringing a concerned Mercedes and Annette along to help, is Byleth able to slip away from the festivities. As he passes by he has a quick few parting words with Dedue, Ashe, and Ingrid before slipping out of the reception hall.

He finds Dimitri quicker than he expects. The king hasn’t gone far, standing near the gazebo outside the hall. Byleth hesitates as he catches sight of him, tall, straight-backed, his furred cloak making him seem much bigger than Byleth knows he is. To most people, Dimitri’s figure is imposing - to Byleth, the sight of that build only brings the phantom of a flutter to his still heart.

“I was wondering where you’d gone.”

Dimitri startles at Byleth’s voice, and he whirls around, looking much like a startled cat. When he catches sight of Byleth, however, he noticeably unbristles, looking a touch embarrassed.

“Ah, Professor,” he says, his voice low and soft in the quiet of the empty monastery grounds. “Or, should I say, Archbishop-”

“Please,” Byleth interrupts, raising a hand and giving Dimitri the ghost of an exasperated smile. “‘Professor’ is much better than ‘Archbishop’. Or Byleth, if you’d prefer,” he adds, and he can’t deny the tiny flicker of pleasure he feels at the idea of Dimitri calling his name.

His disappointment is difficult to hide as Dimitri dips his head and replies, “Of course, Professor.”

“They missed you, in the party,” Byleth says after a moment, feeling his own self-consciousness creep through his chest.

 _I missed you_ , he thinks, and it feels like a strange thought to have for someone you’ve seen nearly every day for the last year - and yet, it’s difficult to remember the last time Byleth and Dimitri had a discussion that wasn’t life or death in nature. That’s what he misses, being able to enjoy Dimitri’s company for the sake of it, not because some deep gut-churning part of him is just glad that he’s still alive to provide that company.

“Ah, yes,” Dimitri says, and glances off towards the reception hall. “It was… It was getting a bit much. Too many… people. My apologies, for leaving without a word, I just needed… space.”

The look on Dimitri’s face is remarkably impenetrable, for someone who even Byleth finds relatively easy to read. Still, he can tell that the other man is thinking very intently about something - or trying _not_ to think very intently about something, and failing miserably.

Byleth lets out a breath and glances back to the hall as well; he’d intended on bringing Dimitri back, but he doesn’t want to force Dimitri back into the overwhelming atmosphere of the party. Honestly, Byleth isn’t too keen to go back either; the only thing he wants, he realizes, is to spend time with Dimitri, just the two of them - something they hadn’t done in far, far too long.

“... Would you like to go to the pond with me?”

The words are out of Byleth’s mouth before he realizes it. Dimitri seems momentarily surprised as well; quick enough, however, Dimitri smiles.

“It would be my honor.”

The two make their way through the monastery grounds, briefly dipping into the dining hall to pilfer a couple bottles of wine as they go. The chatter is light, sparse, neither of them being particularly talkative to begin with, but Byleth feels himself enjoying it anyway. He likes the way Dimitri’s voice softens when speaking with him alone, he likes the way the other man walks at his side and not a step behind as most others do, he likes the calm comfort that comes when silence falls between them, not the grating awkwardness that is so prevalent with others.

He likes Dimitri, plain and simple.

When they finally make it to the pond, Byleth stands at the mouth of the solitary dock, quick to drop to the ground and begin removing his boots. Dimitri watches with a tinge of amusement, still cradling the wine bottles.

“Planning for a swim?”

Fighting a smile, Byleth replies, “You remember the scolding Sylvain got last time Seteth caught him in the pond.”

“I’d think that had more to do with the lack of, ahem, _decency_ , than the swimming,” Dimitri says.

As both he and Byleth share a laugh, Dimitri sets both bottles down at his feet, and Byleth’s breath catches, a familiar spark lighting in the pit of his stomach as he watches Dimitri shrug out of his cloak.

It would be a lie to say that Byleth has never… noticed Dimitri. In that way. The strength and bulk of his body, the way he carries himself, how he towers over Byleth himself - Byleth isn’t a pure, untouched maiden, and he knows an attractive man when he sees one.

Things like that got lost, however, as Byleth found himself drowning in battle and tactics. During the war, it was hard to appreciate things like the way a friend, a trusted confidant, made him feel, when every moment of every day was consumed by the fear that any brief moment of distraction would cost them all dearly. The luxury of desire had been something that Byleth could, quite simply, not afford.

But now the war is over. The storm of worry in his head has finally subsided, and he can finally, properly appreciate it:

Dimitri is gorgeous.

A flush colors Byleth’s cheeks as the thought crosses his mind, and he’s quick to look away, hurriedly pulling off his other boot. He hops up, leaving his boots together near the fishing stand, and nods for Dimitri to follow him as he tiptoes his way to the end of the dock.

Sitting down, he dangles his legs over the edge, shivering as the coolness of the water hits his feet, and stares out over the water. At his side, Dimitri sits, placing one bottle of wine on the dock as he pulls one knee up to his chest and crosses the other under. He uncorks it easily, takes a good, healthy gulp, and then offers it to Byleth, who takes it wordlessly. Trying not to think about how Dimitri’s lips had just been pressed to the rim of the bottle proves difficult, and his face feels a touch hotter as he takes his own drink.

They take turns passing the bottle back and forth, each taking a swig in between chatting about the recent stretch of days they’d barely been in each others’ presence, reminiscing about their school days - a topic that had felt almost taboo considering their circumstances, but now feels… right, in a way Byleth can’t verbalize. Even after all these years each memory bubbles out like the fizz of freshly opened champagne, one leading from another, punctuated only by the odd reserved laugh or embarrassed chuckle.

By the time the first bottle is polished off, the space between them has shrunk. Dimitri’s dipped the toe of his boot experimentally in the pond and Byleth is leaned back on one hand, laughing about something awful Sylvain had said years ago while gesturing wildly with the empty bottle, and Dimitri hasn’t taken his eyes off of Byleth in minutes. The moonlight, bright and beautiful due to the clear night sky above, seems to give Byleth an almost ethereal glow, his hair like a halo. A being of pure… light.

Byleth’s laughter fades, and he looks to Dimitri, catching his eye.

Dimitri is close. Much closer than before.

“You’re… staring,” Byleth mumbles, feeling like he should look away, and yet finding it impossible.

A thought seems to strike Dimitri, and the words fall effortlessly from his tongue as he says, “You’re mesmerizing.”

The alcohol-fueled heat in Byleth’s face burns just that much more as those two words stun him into momentary silence. He’s not sure what to say, what he _wants_ to say. All he can think now is how the wine has finally chased away the chill of the night, and how he can’t remember the story he was going to bring up next, and how goddess-damned _beautiful_ Dimitri is at this moment, at every moment, and how he wants nothing more than to-

As if Dimitri has suddenly gained the ability to read his mind, the king leans even closer, and his voice is low, serious, the slightest bit of trepidation in its tone as he says, “Professor- Byleth, I… would very much like to kiss you right now.”

They’re so close now, Dimitri’s shoulder bumped up against Byleth’s, their knees just barely grazing each other. It’s when Byleth realizes that Dimitri’s face is barely an arrowhead’s away from his own that his embarrassment ( _that_ is certainly a new feeling) finally catches up to him. He tears his gaze away from the trap Dimitri’s had caught him in, locking it on the bottle still clutched between his hands like a safety blanket.

Dimitri’s face falls, but he leans down, trying to recapture Byleth’s gaze as he asks, his voice even softer than before, “May I?”

The flare of desire Byleth feels at the base of his stomach is familiar. Even through the dark, hazy fog of his past, he has memories of this feeling, flashes of desire, of the fires set by a lone stranger or two in the downtime of his mercenary work, after Jeralt had finally stopped monitoring his every move. He’s felt the carnal hunger of this fire before, and he remembers how quickly this fire has always extinguished soon after.

This, though.

This feels different.

 _May I?_ repeats in Byleth’s head over and over and over, and each time the fire within him grows stronger, and he realizes that this fire had been set long, _long_ ago - Dimitri’s question is just oil tipped over it, causing this small, persistent flame to suddenly erupt into a blazing inferno within him.

This… _is_ different.

Byleth looks back to Dimitri.

_May I?_

Byleth smiles.

“You may.”

There’s a pause as Byleth’s permission takes a moment to register. Then, Dimitri reaches up, cupping one gloved hand under the side of Byleth’s face, and he touches the side of one finger under Byleth’s chin, gently tilting his head up. Dimitri leans in-

And hesitates, as if he’s not sure he hasn’t just imagined this.

Byleth’s smile softens, and he grabs the wrist of the hand at his face, leaning into it. An almost disbelieving grin tugs at Dimitri’s lips, and he bridges the gap, his free hand moving to the back of Byleth’s neck as he pulls him in.

Dimitri kisses him, hard, and as Byleth melts into the kiss, into Dimitri, he has an epiphany:

This- This new, foreign feeling within him, the fuel to this everlasting flame within him?

This must be love.

...

The moment does not last.

When the kiss breaks, both of them still so close, Byleth feels something is wrong. He’s not sure when the turn happened, but Dimitri is suddenly tense.

“What’s wrong?” Byleth asks, discomfort beginning to dampen his fire.

A look of realization crosses Dimitri’s face, and he withdraws from Byleth, holding his hands like he’s just been caught in the process of a crime. He touches his lips, and the reality of the circumstances seem to crash down upon him all at once as a guilty sort of panic takes over his expression.

“I… I beg your apologies, Byle- Profe- _Archbishop_ ,” Dimitri corrects himself, and despite his stunned confusion Byleth feels a pang in his chest, his stomach flipping from the sudden turn in this situation. “I should… I should never have…”

Byleth knows one of Dimitri’s panic attacks when he sees one. He hastily pulls his legs out of the water, setting aside the wine bottle and sitting up, turning to face Dimitri. He hesitates, unsure of what to do, of what even brought this on to begin with, before trying to gently place a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder.

“Dimitri, what-”

Dimitri cringes away from Byleth’s touch, and he’s on his feet before Byleth can even process what’s happening.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice is desperate, approaching heartbreak. “This… this was wrong. This was a _mistake_ , I shouldn’t have…”

 _Mistake_.

The word echoes in Byleth’s head, and the feeling it brings him is familiar in the worst imaginable way. His own anxiety begins to creep slowly into his chest, and his voice is confused, hesitant, as he says, “Dimitri, what… what do you mean ‘ _mistake_ ’?”

Regret and heartbreak are the only words Byleth can think to describe the expression on Dimitri’s face as, after a moment’s hesitation, the other man gestures between them and replies, “That. This. Asking that of you, doing… that… to you- it was a mistake. A mistake,” he repeats, and he sounds as if he might shatter himself.

At the very least, Byleth is sure his heart will.

“Dimitri-”

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri interrupts, and he turns, rushing to the mouth of the dock. There, he places a hand on where he’d hung his cloak, and he pauses, as if he might turn back, say something more, _explain_ himself-

He doesn’t. Dimitri grabs his cloak, balling his fist around the material so tight as to turn his knuckles white, and then he leaves, taking off in the direction of his quarters.

Byleth watches his retreat, an unfathomably heavy weight sinking in his stomach as he tries to process what the _hell_ just happened. He looks at the unopened wine bottle, and he’s glad that crying doesn’t come easy to him, as what he can only describe as grief settles over him. He sits at the dock for several moments more, still unsure of what to do.

Then, he grabs both bottles and slowly rises. He pads his way to where he’d left his boots, stooping down to grab them, and, with a confused, dejected look towards where Dimitri had disappeared, begins his trek back to his own quarters.

On his way, he thinks that maybe Dimitri just needs some time to process what they’d done. What it meant. Byleth came to his conclusion quickly, fervently, but maybe he’d just been feeling this way for so long, much longer than Dimitri, that it came effortlessly. Maybe Dimitri just needs a night, and then in the morning he’ll call for Dimitri and they can talk this through, without the alcohol or the moonlight to distract them.

Yes. Byleth can give that. He can give one night.

When Byleth goes to call for Dimitri in the morning, however, all he finds is a hungover Sylvain and an irritable Felix making their way from their room to the dining hall.

He asks if they’ve seen Dimitri, and the two share a look that carves a cavern in Byleth’s core, before answering:

Dimitri and Dedue are already gone. They left for Fhirdiad early this morning.

The news takes a moment to process, and when it does, Byleth clenches his jaw, his whole body locking as he feels a stab of… anger.

Betrayal.

 _Disappointment_.

He thanks Sylvain and Felix, who seem to have caught on to the sudden change in Byleth’s mood but without any idea of what to do about it, and turns, marching back towards his quarters.

Dimitri ran away. Gone, without a word. Not even a goodbye.

 _He’s a coward_ , a vitriolic voice in the back of Byleth’s mind whispers, and despite his deepening heartache, Byleth can’t find it in him to disagree.  
  


* * *

  
Six months is a long time, Byleth realizes.

Time has never felt like it had a real, tangible impact on his life. Things happen, more things happen, and every memory blurs together at some point until it all just seems like it happened a lifetime ago, like it happened to someone else. The structure of school, of being forced to view time on a week by week basis, to keep a schedule, had given the passage of time some kind of meaning - but then he lost five years in an instant, and when he woke up that structure was gone. And so time lost that brief moment of making sense.

As it turns out, waiting for something that might never come gives the passage of time new meaning, and not one that Byleth appreciates.

Since taking over his duties as Archbishop, slowly working with the remaining Knights and nobility to bring a sense of normalcy back to the monastery, the cemetery has been his haven. It’s quiet, peaceful, and few dare to interrupt his apparent meditation, not even Seteth. A good place to organize his thoughts. To stop thinking so hard about his new responsibilities.

Letters come near daily. People of Fodlan looking to the new Archbishop for help, for answers, for comfort. He answers them with Seteth’s guidance, because he’s still not wholly sure what he’s even doing, taking up Rhea’s mantle - he’s a mercenary, a teacher, not a holy man, and most days all he can give are echoes of things he once used to tell his students.

Sometimes it reminds him of the letter box in the Cathedral, and that makes him smile. He does miss teaching; it’s the only non-destructive thing he’s ever felt… good at. Like it suited him.

He misses his students, too. All of them, especially the ones he can’t let himself think too long of. Luckily, the ones still around communicate as regularly as they can.

Ashe, Mercedes and Annette, Felix and Sylvain, Ingrid, Dedue - their letters are a particular joy to find in the midst of strangers’ requests. Dedue’s strike a particular chord with Byleth, as the man, as thoughtful and generous as ever, makes sure to mention Dimitri. How he’s been, what he’s been doing, mundane, average things that keep him hooked to Dedue’s letters like a fish. Anything for even the slightest scrap.

Dimitri himself hasn’t contacted Byleth. Not since that night. Not once.

Sitting cross-legged in front of Jeralt and Sitri’s grave, Byleth looks at the small, dainty silver ring in his hand. He turns it over, watching the sunlight make the small purple stones gleam, and he thinks of the conversation he and Jeralt had in this very spot. One of their last.

The back of his throat thickens, and he pulls out a small black drawstring bag, fighting the emotions flaring up within him. Byleth never thought he’d miss the numbing of his past self, when he felt hardly anything at all that wasn’t lust or bloodthirst.

And yet.

The realization he’d come to just before Dimitri ripped both of their hearts out isn’t one he likes dwelling on either. For the first few months after, in his anger and bitterness and disappointment, he’d only denied it to himself: Of course it isn’t love. Byleth isn’t equipped for that. Byleth isn’t _made_ for that. The stillness in his chest is proof enough.

And yet.

Six months on and Byleth can’t… deny himself, anymore. Every emotion he’s ever felt has never been as intense as it was that night, and every passing thought of Dimitri or Fhirdiad or moonlight or wine or cloaks or lances _all of it_ only intensifies it.

Barely a day can go by without his mind drifting to Dimitri or something that reminds him of Dimitri, and the anguish in his chest as Byleth keeps track of every day, every week, every month that goes by without seeing him, without hearing from him, only reinforces it.

He’s in love with Dimitri, and he has been for a long, long time.

Byleth drops the ring into the drawstring bag and cinches the mouth of the bag shut. A small hole is already dug at the base of the grave; shallow enough to not disturb the grounds, deep enough to get the job done. He’d considered requesting Seteth help him bury it _with_ his parents, but had backed out last moment. This is his third option, which still feels better than his _first_ impulsive idea to just throw it into the woods, never to be found again.

Jeralt wouldn’t have wanted that, Byleth knows as much.

Placing the bag at the bottom of the hole, he refills it. Then, Byleth pushes himself to his knees and, with a sad, apologetic look at the marker, mumbles, “I’m sorry, Dad. There’s… no one else. No one but him. And he… Doesn’t feel the same.”

The hurt threatens to bubble up again. He stands and makes his way up the steps out of the cemetery, leaving his freshly buried treasure behind, wishing he could do the same with all of these emotions he never knew he didn't want.  
  


* * *

  
A year is a long time, Byleth realizes.

A year is a long time to not see someone, to not hear from someone, to not even be able to read their handwriting.

A year seems like it should be enough. Enough time to heal. Enough time to stop regretting. Enough time to forget.

The letter Seteth hands him is impossible to mistake. He reads one every week at a minimum, an update on the state of Fhirdiad, of the castle, of Dedue and Ashe and occasionally Ingrid, of the king. Always in Dedue’s neat, professional scrawl, with Archbishop Byleth emblazoned on the front. This letter is so routine he nearly dismisses the envelope it’s come in all-together-

But the front catches his eye. He flips it and is… confused.

The front of the letter… says… “Professor”.

Byleth thought he had moved on. That those emotions deep within him had finally gone, disappeared with their catalyst. That the flame had finally been snuffed out.

And yet.

And yet.

And _yet_.

He rips the envelope open.

The letter is… still routine. Almost disappointingly so. But it’s clear as day - these are _his_ words, _his_ handwriting, beautifully written in blue ink.

When Byleth reaches the end, his breath catches as he reads:  
  


_I’m… terribly sorry for the lack of… correspondence. Though I would not begrudge you should you decide you do not wish further contact from me personally, I shall nevertheless endeavor to write more often._

_I hope you are well, Professor,_

Dimitri.  
  


It’s simple. It’s formal. It’s long, _long_ overdue-

But it’s Dimitri, and that’s all Byleth has ever, _ever_ wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually technically a prequel to my other fic, "this must be love.", so if you're looking for a happi _er_ ending I'd recommend checking that one out as well.
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


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